Face Behind the Mask

by Leo King

  “Yeah. Let’s go take a look.”

  With a nod, Rivette tossed the cigarette down and ground it out. Then he led her past the uniformed officers, who were either taking reports from the neighbors or assisting the crime lab unit. “Hope your stomach’s empty.”

  The inside was pure butchery. The shag carpet had been soaked in blood until it was squishy, and the faux-wood–panel walls looked as if as someone had swung a red paintbrush around. One of the floor lamps—the white plastic kind found at places like Wal-Mart—was striped red like a macabre candy cane. Even a wooden console table, covered with family and individual photos, was covered in blood. The sheer ferocity of the attack made Dixie shake her head. Even after the wharf incident and the new Bourbon Street Ripper, carnage like this was still quite unsettling.

  “What can you tell me about the victims?” she asked, taking note of the bodies. In the front room was a middle-aged African American man lying on a vinyl recliner chair. His throat had been slit, and his large, hairy belly and chest had multiple stab wounds. In the middle of the hallway was a teenage girl lying on her stomach. The backs of her knees had been slashed, and blood pooled around her neck—likely another cut throat. The second-to-last doorway was open, and a heavy-set woman was kneeling lifelessly against the frame. Her throat had also been slit, the front of her nightgown soaked red.

  Along the way, Rivette read from a small notebook. “Let’s see. They were all members of the Davis family. The one in the front was the father, Jordan. The mother, Brianna, was killed in the doorway of the master bedroom. The eldest son, Elijah, was killed in the kitchen. The eldest daughter, Kiara, was killed in the hallway. And the youngest son, Xavier, was killed in his bedroom.”

  Half paying attention, Dixie observed how the blood splattered. The streaks seemed to be originating from the back of the house, in the kitchen. That must have been where the killer started.

  When they entered the kitchen, she caught sight of Landry, Rivette’s portly partner. He was kneeled over the body of a teenage boy, helping Crime Lab take pictures. The boy was on his back, partially under a small dining table. His throat had also been cut, and there were puddles of blood at his feet. The acrid scent was everywhere. Gagging a little, she covered her nose and mouth with a scented handkerchief. The sweet smell of coconut soon filled her senses, and she returned to scrutinizing the room. Scene analysis was her forte, and this scene had a lot to tell her. There was such ferocity in these splatters. The killer had an inhuman amount of strength and rage.

  Rivette waved at his partner. “Hey, Landry, anything interesting?”

  Standing up, Landry wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He was already sweating profusely and smelled like an old pulled-pork sandwich. “Other than Halloween coming a little early this year? No, nothing special, Scott, Lieutenant. Looks like someone just decided to slaughter the Davis family.”

  “Just call me Dixie, please.”

  She continuously had to remind all of her subordinates to call her by her first name. While she was grateful for the promotion and the perks it offered, she hated the formality that came with it. So long as they listened when given an order, she wanted them to feel at ease around her.

  “Right, Dixie, sorry.” He bowed, and then returned to assisting Crime Lab.

  “Looks like it’s going to be another late night,” Rivette said.

  “Yeah. Seems that way.” She returned to examining the room, scanning for anything that would tell the story behind the grisly murders.

  Rivette started pacing in front of her. “It’s damn disgusting, Dixie. We bust our asses every day, double since the New Ripper case. I can’t even remember the last time I got a full day off. You’d think by now we’d get some slack. But nope, not at all.”

  “We’ve been over this,” she said, starting to tune him out. “We lost too many men at the wharf. Until we get more qualified detectives, half-days off are the best anyone can hope for.”

  As he went on to complain about the mayor’s recent round of budget cuts, she ignored him completely, focusing on the scene instead. Something was amiss. She could feel it. Nibbling on her thumb, which she often did when deep in thought, she examined Elijah’s body. His legs were bent in an uncomfortable position, as if he had fallen back from being unable to support his weight. She knelt slowly, supporting herself on the table, her balance off due to the missing half of her arm. It was annoying. Once on her knees, she tilted one of Elijah’s legs. As she suspected, the backs of his knees had been sliced. That takes a lot of force. But why do that?

  Standing, she hurried into the hallway. Rivette followed her, still ranting. “And the worst part is that everyone in charge, from the mayor to Commander Ouellette, doesn’t seem to understand that there are even more crazies now. It’s like ever since the wharf, people aren’t afraid to just wholesale murder each other.”

  “One second, Scott,” she said, checking the rest of the victims. Both the mother and the sister also had the backs of their knees slashed, while the youngest son had been decapitated.

  “None of them have defensive wounds. They never saw the killer coming.”

  “Hey, Dixie, are you listening to me?” Rivette seemed annoyed.

  “Back off, Detective,” she said, glaring at him. “My open-door policy does not extend to murder scenes. We can talk about your issues another time.”

  He held out his hands. “Sorry. I was out of line.”

  Landry, who had joined them, cleared his throat. “Dixie, it looks like we also have a kidnapping.”

  Dixie snapped her head toward him. “Excuse me?”

  Flustered, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty, pork-scented face. “Yeah, there’s pictures of her all over. Also, Xavier’s room had a bunk bed. It’s not uncommon for poorer families to bunk children together.”

  “Musta missed that,” Rivette said, skimming the console table. He started wiping blood off one of the pictures. “My bad, Dixie.”

  She frowned. This was an added complication. “Are you certain there’s another family member?”

  “Oh, yes, positive,” Landry said, drying the back of his neck. “Her name is… is…”

  “It’s Hannah,” Rivette said, holding up a picture of a young girl. Her name was spelled with rhinestones glued onto the frame. “The blood was covering her face up, so I thought it was the older daughter. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine. So, why are we declaring this a kidnapping?”

  Instead of answering, Landry motioned for them to follow. He led them to the communal bathroom. “Check out the mirror, Lieuten—Dixie.”

  The sink was covered in watered-down blood, like someone had taken the time to wash their hands. Written across the mirror, in blood, was a single message that chilled her to the bone: The girl is mine.

  Rivette snorted. “Just another night in the Big Easy, eh?”

  The following morning, Dixie got to work early. As she cut across the open floor of the homicide division, she heard Commander Ouellette.

  “Olivier. My office. Now.” He stood at the entrance of his office, tapping his fingers on the wooden frame.

  She stood there, holding the tote bag where she kept her lunch and most of her personal belongings, wondering what she had done wrong. Since her promotion, Ouellette almost never took that tone with her.

  “Sure, Commander. Let me just put my bag down in my office and—”

  “Or you could just get your ass in here now, Olivier.”

  She sighed and slowly counted to three, holding her tongue. Ever since her promotion, the commander almost always treated her as an equal. There were times, however, when he could still be an insufferable prick.

  “Yes, sir,” she finally said, stepping into his office.

  “Close the door.”

  She did. “What’s this about?”

  “Take a seat.” He then tapped the mute button on his speakerphone. “She’s here, doctor.”

  “Ah, good. Thank you, Lo
uis. Hello there, Lieutenant Olivier.”

  She immediately recognized the voice. “Dr. Lazarus. What can I do for you?”

  She heard Dr. Lazarus shuffle through some papers. “So, I’ll cut to the chase. Remember a few months ago when we spoke about Sam?”

  Dixie sat up attentively. As painful as it was, Sam was never too far from her thoughts. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Then you remember agreeing to fully devote yourself to helping her when the time came?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, that time has come. Are you willing to help her?”

  She looked up at Ouellette, and he motioned back to the phone. She couldn’t read his expression at all.

  Dixie bit her bottom lip. Three times so far, she had let Sam down. The first was when she had falsely accused Sam of being the new Bourbon Street Ripper, leading to the incident at the wharf. The second was when she had failed to recognize that Sam was suicidal, leading to her jumping from her burning townhome. And the third was when she had kept Sam’s impending commitment a secret, choosing to obey an order from the police chief even though her gut said it was wrong.

  She must think the worst of me. I have to make it up to her somehow.

  “Yes. I’ll do anything to help her.”

  “Good,” said Dr. Lazarus. “I have worked out an arrangement with your commander. While you’re working on your caseload, you’ll also be helping me.”

  The urgency in his voice was so thick that she felt her heart beat faster.

  “Doctor, is Sam in danger?”

  There was a long pause on the other line. “I believe she is, Detective. I’ll be in contact with you tomorrow mid-morning.”

  “OK.” She leaned back.

  “Thanks for allowing this, Louis,” Dr. Lazarus said.

  “You’re welcome, Andre. Take care.” Ouellette hung up.

  Dixie continued biting her bottom lip. Ouellette’s expression was still unreadable, the same focused one he’d had for most of the new Ripper case. “Um, Commander?”

  “Yes, Olivier? What is it?”

  “It’s just that… tomorrow morning… if you recall?” She placed her hand over her abdomen.

  He wrinkled his brow a moment, and then chortled. At once, his expression was relaxed, even fatherly. “Oh, that’s right. Your ultrasound appointment. My apologies. I forgot.”

  She rubbed gently. It would be her first visit to the obstetrician since learning she was pregnant. “Right. So if Dr. Lazarus calls while I’m there, please let him know I’ll call back, all right?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. But about this Sam thing. There’s something I need to get off my chest.” He walked over to several rows of framed photographs on the wall: photos of fellow soldiers lost during the Vietnam War, photos of his son, and photos of every officer slain during the new Bourbon Street Ripper case. There was even a photograph of a squadron dressed in World War I clothes.

  His expression softened as he scanned his personal wall of memories, his fingers sliding over the pictures of Rodger Bergeron and Michael LeBlanc. Dixie felt a lump in her throat as she gazed at Michael’s photo. He had been her best friend.

  Then Ouellette turned back to her. His expression was again unreadable, his stature and voice militant. “I don’t personally dislike Samantha Castille. You could even say that I share a kindred spirit with her. She has an amazing will and could’ve been something truly special. But at this point, I’ve written her off as trouble. Every person who’s become a part of her life has either died or suffered great loss. It’s like her entire life is cursed.”

  He paused a moment and then exhaled deeply. “So I won’t blame you if you tell Dr. Lazarus to piss off.”

  Dixie glowered. It had always been obvious that the commander never much cared for Sam, almost as if he were disappointed with how she had turned out. When they had visited Sam in the hospital, he’d spoken to her alone. Afterward, he had said, “It would have been better if that girl hadn’t been born.”

  With a sigh, she said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not ready to write her off. Every time she’s needed me, I’ve failed her.”

  “Olivier, you’re not responsible for what happened to her. It’s silly for you to think you owe her anything.”

  “Call it what you will. I don’t rationalize my emotions. I just care about her and want to help her.”

  “You hardly know her. Don’t presume you’re her friend due to guilt.”

  “And don’t you presume to dictate the friends I choose.”

  He folded his arms. “You’re determined, then?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going to help Sam no matter what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ouellette shrugged and then sat back down. “All right, but don’t come crying to me when shit gets to be too much.”

  Feeling the rush of a victory over her hard-headed commander, she said, “I won’t, sir.”

  He grunted, sorting through reports. “Good. Just work the Davis family case for now. You’ll have your hands full with Dr. Lazarus. Of that I’m sure.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood up and gathered her tote bag.

  “Oh, and Olivier?”

  Stopping by the door, she raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  Ouellette motioned toward her with an ever-so-slightly pleasant expression. “Congrats on the baby. I’m sure Gino and you will make fine parents. If you need anything, let me know.”

  Dixie felt better. Despite his being a prick, there were moments when Ouellette was genuinely kind. “Thank you, sir.”

  It was late in the evening when Gino called. Dixie had spent the entire day waiting to hear from the medical examiner on the Davis family murders, keeping busy by assisting her subordinates with their cases. So when he called, she was glad to finally hear the deep, sensual voice of her beautiful lover.

  “Dixie. When are you coming home? Dinner will be ready soon.” The sounds of sizzling and boiling were in the background. He was cooking, as he usually did on Tuesday nights.

  She looked at the time. It was almost seven o’clock. “Oh, sorry, honey. I’ll wrap things up and head home soon.”

  A pot clanked loudly, and then Gino muttered in Greek. A moment later he said, “That’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”

  That made her giggle. He always managed to make her feel like a schoolgirl. “Everything OK, honey?”

  “I am at war with the calamari. Sadly, my love, it is winning.”

  She held back a second giggle, imaging him batting at the food with a frying pan.

  “I’ll be here when you get home,” he said.

  “See you soon, honey.” She felt great as she hung up, loving that he still ended every phone call with “I’ll be here when you get home.” It was like a kiss meant only for her.

  For a few minutes, she just sat there feeling giddy. Then she picked up one of two photographs she kept on her desk, right next to her chess championship trophy. One was of her and Gino, and the other one, the one she picked up, was of her and Michael.

  “Hey, you. So, tomorrow, I get to see my baby for the first time.”

  Her fingers traced the photo fondly. They were sitting at their favorite café and clinking two teacups together. She remembered that day. They had both been so happy.

  “If you were alive, you’d be the godfather. You know that, right? You’d be the best godfather in the world to my baby. I’m sure of it.”

  A couple of tears dripped on the photograph. She spread them over the surface of the glass until it streaked. Even when the two of them had pulled an all-nighter one weekend and had ended up getting mind-blowingly drunk in the French Quarter, she had always felt safe with Michael. He would never take advantage of her or allow anyone else to. Over the years, she’d come to realize how much she cared about him.

  The night you died, I tried to tell you how I really felt. But you already knew. And you let me down so gently, so lovingly. You were such an amazing person, Michael. />
  She held the photograph to her chest. “I miss you so much. Why did you have to die?”

  Kissing the photograph, she set it down. The surface was now streaked with her tears and lipstick. In the silence of her office, the sounds outside muted thanks to her solid oak door, she took a moment to calm down and relax. Eyes closed, she slowly breathed in and out. In a minute, her nerves were once again as calm as a windless lake.

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  She opened her eyes. “Come in.”

  Rivette entered, looking haggard and smelling of menthol cigarettes. He held up a pair of folders. “I come bearing gifts of grim horror and blood, Lady Olivier.” He bowed, his ponytail flopping over his face.

  Despite having just had a somber moment, she laughed. “You ass! How dare you spoil a perfectly bad mood.”

  He dropped the folders before her. “A thousand ill-conceived pardons. Anyway, here is the medical examiner’s report on the Davis family murders, as well as a profile of the missing girl, Hannah Davis.”

  Looking over the two folders, she grimaced. This would definitely make her late for dinner. “I have calamari and sex waiting for me at home. Anyone out there who can work on these?”

  “Just Aucoin. He’s typing up reports for the commander.”

  She shook her head. “No, Kyle’s not a good choice right now. What about you?”

  “Sure, I’ll get right on that after the other six cases I have pending.”

  With an exasperated sigh, she threw up her hand. “Fine! I’ll do it myself.”

  “Can I get you anything, Dixie? Maybe a cup of coffee?” He leaned over, smirking. The menthol smell was positively overpowering.

  She wrinkled her nose and waved him away. “No, I’m good. But, ugh, Scott, do you really have to smoke those things? They stink worse than regular cigarettes!”

  Leaning back, hands in his pockets, he said, “Ha! Hey, it’s menthol. Pretend your nose is drinking a mint julep!”

  “Just stop smoking them. For me, please?”

  Snickering, he shuffled backward out of the office. “It’s like you trying to get me to cut my hair, Dixie. Not gonna happen!”